I’m stuck in suspended animation, still trying to decide what I can possibly say that won’t make a bad situation into an annihilating one, when Richard speaks up from several rows behind me. “I’m not busy during that transition,” he says. “I can hand them to Hattie if there’s no time for her to get to the props table.”
My hero. I turn to him and mouth,Thank you, my eyes burning in adoration with enough intensity to light a match.
His eyes twinkle back at me, and he lifts his chin in a reverse nod as if to say,I got you.
But Mr. Price is trolling for drama, and he seems somewhat disappointed to be moving on. He takes one more jab at me. “And I presume you will remember the real choreography once you have props in hand?”
The relief I’m feeling makes me goofy. I’m not getting fired. I don’t have to quit. “Absolutely, Mr. Price. Real choreography. One hundred percent. Count on me.”
He finally cracks a smile. “I do like enthusiasm,” he says. “And that goes for everyone! T-minus six days to final dress, everyone! Get psyched!”
Oh, I’m psyched all right, Mr. Price. No thanks to you. I’m psyched to be the one making that twinkle happen in Richard’s eyes.
When my mom drops me at school Saturday at dawn, the bus is already there—not a school bus, but a real touring bus with sleek lines and tinted windows. Its engine is rumbling a deep impatience, and it’s belching steam that surrounds the bus like a halo. Kids swarm around the bus, loaded down with every kind of ski equipment imaginable, much of it in fancy nylon cases with brand names I don’t know how to pronounce splashed on the sides. I look down at my own small duffel at my feet. I’m going to have to rent everything but my clothes, which suddenly feels demeaning, like my house is filled with rent-to-own furniture or something. I wrinkle my nose at the thought of the ski pants and jacket sitting inside that duffel, borrowed from my mom from when she used to ski twenty years ago. The pants are navy and the jacket a royal blue, which seemed fine when Mom showed them to me because I like blue in all its forms. But everyone wearing their ski jacket here is in neon: oranges, pinks, and greens that make them look like a deluxe pack of highlighters. I’ve now lost count of the number of ways I’m going to stand out on this trip.Go big or go home, I think grimly.
Mom is watching me, frozen in the front seat, my hand on the door handle. “Hey,” she says. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to. I want to,” I say again, convincing myself more than my mom. I gather up my stuff and open the door. The weather has fully cooperated with the plans of the school’s ski club, and a biting blast of icy air hits my face.
“Okay, then, have fun and be safe,” she says. “I love you. You’re going to do great. Call me anytime.” She’s not always the worst.
“Thanks, Mom.” I hitch my bag over my shoulder and walk lopsided to the bus.
Richard is loitering against the outer wall of the auditorium like it’s a warm, breezy day in June. I wince as I see the person next to him. I already knew Amanda was coming on this trip, had made sure of it, in fact, because I couldn’t leave her here with Mr. Price while I was off skiing and missing rehearsal. I would lose the part for sure. So in a way I’m glad she’s here, but does she always have to be within three feet of Richard? I guess I thought that once Richard and I kissed, things would be different, but she seems more present than ever. Always beside him, usually laughing and jangling her keys. The constant need to stake my claim is exhausting. I wish I could make him wear an ugly Christmas sweater with a picture of my face on it. Of course, then I would have to look at my own face when I was with him. Not optimal. More brainstorming needed.
She sees me. “Hey, lady.” She sort of gasps it, as if she has to catch her breath from the very excellent time she’d been having with my guy.
“What’s up?” I say as I slide next to Richard. Can I grab hishand? Touch his arm? I can’t bring myself to be that bold, so I just stand very, very close to him.
“We were waiting for you,” Richard says, which reassures me. All is well. “Let’s get on. It’s freezing.”
I still have to wait in line to load my bag in the luggage compartment underneath the bus, so I get on after them, praying that they’re not sitting together. But no, they’re across the aisle from each other and Richard waves me over.Stop being paranoid, I tell myself.Enjoy this.
Jeff is standing in the very back row, apparently waiting until the last minute to fold himself into a seat. “Hattie!” he says, surprised. I realize I didn’t tell anyone in the Beaver Bunch I was going on the ski trip. I didn’t really believe I was actually going myself until about thirty seconds ago. “Come on back!”
Hesitating, I glance at Richard. He is looking at me, amused. He extends his palm toward the seat next to him. An invitation.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper, dropping my backpack into the space next to him to hold my spot, just in case Amanda gets any ideas about moving. Then I walk toward the back of the bus, already blushing at the thought of filling my friend in on my new … situation.
“Want window or aisle?” Jeff asks amiably. This is an overly generous offer, since Jeff’s knees would be smashed against his chest if he tried to squeeze his basketball-player-sized frame in by the window. Actually, even though people always think he must play basketball, the closest he’s ever come to playing on a team is when he’s playingMaddenon his game console. Nolan’sthe same, and so was Mason. That was probably part of how they originally started hanging out. Not that they’re lazy or unathletic; Jeff’s already got a ski pass for an additional ski resort hanging off his zipper. Just, I think, that they never really cozied up to the “organized” aspect of organized sports.
“Thanks, Jeff,” I say, “but I think I’m going to sit up front. With Richard.” I try to say it as casually as possible, but I see the possible implication dawning on Jeff as his eyebrows go up. At least Asha hasn’t revealed this part of our conversation to the rest of the group. “We’re … trying something.”Trying something? What the hell does that even mean?
But Jeff, in typical form, gives me an out on any cringiness. “All right, all right,” he says, nodding. “Cool, cool.”
“I still love you, though,” I say, breathing easier.
“What’s not to love?” Jeff grins, turns his back to me, and pretends to make out with himself for a second. Then he immediately becomes engrossed with hassling the kid across the aisle. “Dude, you’ve got your shoes off already?! We haven’t even left yet. Bro, your feet are rank. Who’s got some Febreze?”
I return to my backpack and climb over Richard’s lovely legs. No big deal, totally normal, just because the whole bus can now tell something is going on between us, that’s no reason to shrivel into a tiny raisiny version of myself. I get situated for five hours of together time. My self-consciousness is neutralized by how glorious this is going to be. He’s already got his AirPods out, and he hands one to me.
“This is my ski playlist,” he says. “I have another one foraprès-ski.” He raises an eyebrow. I love how fancy and sexy this sounds, but I have no idea what it means. I nod knowingly.
We sit close together and listen. It’s mostly jazz and big band music, stuff I normally hate. I like music with lyrics so you can sing along, so you know what the song’s really about. But this morning, instruments-only is working for me, mostly because it was picked by Richard, but also because it’s creating a mood. It’s like a scrim onstage, in front of which Richard and I can improvise our own scene.
By the time we’ve listened to two tracks, we’re already speeding down the highway. The countryside around us is desolate and brown. The autumn leaves have fallen and everywhere exposed branches crisscross like a scraggly bird’s nest. The trees look lonely even as they cluster together. The only hint that we might actually be able to ski at the end of this ride is a handful of flurries blowing across the road, swirling but refusing to accumulate.
Richard reaches into his backpack and pulls out a fleece throw blanket. The tour bus is pumping heat on full blast and it’s already pretty warm, so this choice is a mystery to me until it becomes clear that his goal is actually a privacy screen. He spreads it out over both our laps and pulls it up to his chin as he leans into me. He noses at my arm like a puppy and ducks his head when I lift my elbow so that my arm is now wrapped around his shoulders and his face is resting on my collarbone.
